A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [59]
“I hurt,” she said, holding her side. “I wish you’d killed that Christforsaken John.”
“What did you do to him?”
“I tried to rob him while he was fucking Cora, but he cottoned to it.”
Mack nodded. He had heard that prostitutes sometimes had accomplices who robbed their clients. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’d kiss the pope’s arse for a glass of gin.”
Mack had never heard such talk from anyone, let alone a little girl. He did not know whether to be shocked or amused.
On the other side of the road was the Bear, the tavern where Mack had knocked down the Bermondsey Bruiser and won a pound from a dwarf. They crossed the street and went in. Mack bought three mugs of beer and they stood in a corner to drink them.
The girl tossed most of hers down in a few gulps and said: “You’re a good man, Jock.”
“My name is Mack,” he said. “This is Dermot.”
“I’m Peggy. They call me Quick Peg.”
“On account of the way you drink, I suppose.”
She grinned. “In this city, if you don’t drink quick someone will steal your liquor. Where are you from, Jock?”
“A village called Heugh, about fifty miles from Edinburgh.”
“Where’s Edinburgh?”
“Scotland.”
“How far away is that, then?”
“It took me a week on a ship, down the coast.” It had been a long week. Mack was unnerved by the sea. After fifteen years working down a pit the endless ocean made him dizzy. But he had been obliged to climb the masts to tie ropes in all weathers. He would never be a sailor. “I believe the stagecoach takes thirteen days,” he added.
“Why did you leave?”
“To be free. I ran away. In Scotland, coal miners are slaves.”
“You mean like the blacks in Jamaicky?”
“You seem to know more about Jamaicky than Scotland.”
She resented the implied criticism. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Scotland is nearer, that’s all.”
“I knew that.” She was lying, Mack could tell. She was only a little girl, despite her bravado, and she touched his heart
A woman’s voice said breathlessly: “Peg, are you all right?”
Mack looked up to see a young woman wearing a dress the color of an orange.
Peg said: “Hello, Cora. I was rescued by a handsome prince. Meet Scotch Jock McKnock.”
Cora smiled at Mack and said: “Thank you for helping Peg. I hope you didn’t get those bruises in the process.”
Mack shook his head. “That was another brute.”
“Let me buy you a drink of gin.”
Mack was about to refuse—he preferred beer—but Dermot said: “Very kind, we thank you.”
Mack watched her as she went to the bar. She was about twenty years old, with an angelic face and a mass of flaming red hair. It was shocking to think someone so young and pretty was a whore. He said to Peg: “So she shagged that fellow who chased you, did she?”
“She doesn’t usually have to go all the way with a man,” Peg said knowiedgeabry. “She generally leaves him in some alley with his dick up and his breeches down.”
“While you run off with his purse,” Dermot said.
“Me? Get off. I’m a lady-in-waiting to Queen Charlotte.”
Cora sat beside Mack. She wore a heavy, spicy perfume that had sandalwood and cinnamon in it “What are you doing in London, Jock?”
He stared at her. She was very attractive. “Looking for work.”
“Find any?”
“Not much.”
She shook her head. “It’s been a whore of a winter, cold as the grave, and the price of bread is shocking. There’s too many men like you.”
Peg put in: “That was what made my father turn to thieving, two years ago, only he didn’t have the knack.”
Mack reluctantly tore his gaze away from Cora and looked at Peg. “What happened to him?”
“He danced with the sheriff’s collar on.”
“What?”
Dermot explained. “It means he was hanged.”
Mack said: “Oh, dear, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, you Scotch git, it makes me sick.”
Peg was a real hard case. “All right, all right, I won’t,” Mack said mildly.
Cora said: “If you want work, I know someone who’s looking for coal heavers, to unload the coal ships. The work